Empty as these jars

Wood chips fleck your beard and hair–
muddy eyes penetrate the sandy Nazareth air–
Mine turn quickly away toward the town spring,
back to the grain yours go, I slow focusing
on you, your carving, so intricate of craftsmen,
I think of us–content–together–with children,
You glance up, again, about to greet,
my little sisters prod me on, whipping with wheat.
Away I walk, but not without another glance,
you pull back to hew sturdily–I leave, jar in hands.
Your seclusion burdens my head like the water and clay
I carry along the long route home, just to look your way–
so mysterious, you wound me occasionally,
said I’d understand some day. Is it me
that makes you contend inside?
For Mary adores me, she wants you, a bride,
“She would be good for you, Yeshu,”1 I know she’s said,
so save me from this unrequited love and wed,
for your short gaze makes my daily walk not so far,
but I am still lonely as this empty kilned jar.
1 Hebrew, “God will save”